From my sketchbook..

'Untitled'
Pen on paper

Deluge

Curving up the tree trunks,
peppered with letters and vines,
are pebbles cast across the skin
where blushing ripples side

And sleep will not descend here,
not as I know it should
The wrinkled sheets, they writhe and burn
Oh siren in the woods

Her shriek will pierce the silence
beyond the shallow glow,
of windows borne by shadows,
where dimming lights are low

So overflow, banks overflow!
Overwhelm and overflow!
Build and burst from coast and shore,
these blushing seeds we sow

just one

billy, is that you how are you it's been a while yeah think you can give me some sure like the old days when you were my number one remember how you used to give me ten, twelve fourteen at a time wow just thinking about it sixteen, seventeen those were good times right i hear you how about four or five i could really use about four right now no how about one or two one billy one for old times come on i remember you gave me twenty one time remember that yeah you're right things aren't what they used to be that's true time goes by but some things don't change what, like desperation i'm desperate i'm begging you just one can't you give me just one i see yeah all right all right i understand so long, billy it was great talking to you again later

The Itch

At last, the wind,
winding its way,
through the restless leaves
of sap-encrusted trees
has reached me now,
at this hour,
so I can breathe
something other than the stench
of obscenely clinging malarial heat.

The sky is gray dark deep invaded,
by an army of gestating clouds.
They shall now,
have the last word-
the sun's autocracy
would be shifted:
he shall be imprisoned for a few restful days.
Such is the way of monsoon summer.

And so I sit becalmed
by the cool, shimmering breeze
but for an itch,
beneath the plane
where we employ, our finer sensibilities.
So as I reach out,
towards a pale blue packet,
I wonder whether I should have
another cigarette or
delay my death
by a few more gasping breaths.

Figures

What we were once, two words,
we are no more, taken in

When ten layers absorb
the shadows of our predecessor shapes.
Purple bruises bleed through
the buried concrete

Where one-hundred shouted
stories slid down into
a waiting mouth of obtuse angles.
Vague numbers now,
we follow and ask,

Why one-thousand labors
couldn’t gird us against not-
birthing gusts, their reverse alchemy,
aching to prove

How countless precious lines
can turn testily from true
geometry’s parallel paths, and seek
an improbable calculus of chaotic drips,
those splats that trace a figure

Who in the flash of flame
sees his distinctions
have lavishly become
obliterated.

Our tomorrow will know
what our today’s forgotten.

Content and Form

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For the flip side of this post, hit this link

A Tryst At The Cimmerian Hour

At night when silence slowly creeps

Into the very crevices of rocks and tree-roots,

When the wolves and crickets join the cacophony,

Of night creatures howling grievances to the moon,

As he leaves his darkly silent womb-

I die a sweet, aching death.

At night when mottled fungi awake

To the empyreal dome arching above,

When dewy-eyed flowers luxuriate

By the swiftly streaming brook,

As he picks up the lurking scent and prowls-

I wait for him with bated breath.

At night when an errant moon coerces the sea waves

And they wax and wane in a fury of confusion;

When sea men pray in vain for deliverance

From the vengeful wrath of mighty Neptune,

As I open the door to his urgent embrace-

I drape my desire, over my yearning breast.

(In memory of D.H Lawrence)

Squinting

Gentle inspiration
it has been so long
since I last greeted you
at my door

I am still alone up here
none the wiser,
unable to explain
exactly what it is
I want to sprinkle
on this window ledge

And,
though I have been sent
twinkling tingles
through distant
moonlit burrows,
beyond the daybreak's
curving stars

I still lie here
awake at night
pondering collapsible
sunrises
and endless mornings
bereft of tears

And spells
a pride of them
dozens
a swarm
But never enough to express
how much I love you

seven beats while the metronome joked

You know the clock's not real

but still you ache its ticking

tricked to notice movement

when it is only painted still.

While a skull grins in icy clouds

leaves flip silver to wait for rain

if that's when low you look to see

the pink globe at sunset swollen,

ersatz precursor to a steady diet

of dry brown acorns easily plinked

and eventually served as charcoal

despite the awkward faux pas style

of clasping with fingerless gloves.

Concrete angels bow to the azure half-shell,

her dry lips foaming a pink V for wanting

on a granite stand trimmed green for sorrow,

after a limousine chase for the widow in black silk

and a rural hearse with no juice run down fresh

to a moist entrance dug from angled mounds.

A bebop version of circumstantial pomp

causes greedy tears to mark this turf

with clinging spray cleaved to flesh,

requiem high-notes by a monkey sung

hirsute y muy simpatico y mas,

the girl in plaid is walking beside

deep set eyes and squeaky wheels

under the rising limbs of linden:

it is not gold but cork that floats

safely lined for carriages of loss.

A monologue of normality

from a desiccated carcass

that simply loves the disco,

the soutane above the fray

if the legs had feet instead of glide

by the sacred sign disguised.

Under this sad hymn of high summer

(crickets strumming rhythm

led by cicadas syncopate)

only plain birds sit the sizzling wire,

the dotage that never blinked downhill

rolls from neon crying time's suspense,

the frozen bauble to never flash again.

For something to believe in pink

the pearly globe grows up in size

we only die each time we notice.

Wordsmith

Over the hill it comes
accompanied by
the familiar antagonist
Looming large
in thick
shadowed molasses

Jealousy.

And so I sit
Face in knees
arms wrapped
solidly around
the splintered shins
of little me

Insecure
and torn apart
Beneath great protector’s
fiery sack
of fortitude and strings

Who looking out,
with murmurs deep,
draws his arrow
feathered bow
and flies

Abroad horizons
and carefully loosened
cloudy skies
To strike it down

To. Strike. Him. Down.

Bringer of indelible dirt
Knock
him
over

Until the sky
is torn asunder
Until the ghoul
will not return

Horse
digital photo

Dedicated to Her...

Her words slice through me like a sword,

impaling my brittle heart on its poisoned tip,

draining it brutally to the last vital dreg

of anemic blood- my wavering lifeline.

The fire from her caustic tongue has burnt

the solitary kernel of my cloistered being,

give me a brush so I can sweep the ashes,

give me a rag so I can wipe the slate clean.

(One of my favorite Native American proverbs says: It is better to have less thunder in the mouth and more lightning in the hand)

they...

.

they love you
when you are
as tall as
the wall of their
expectations or
when you are
as solid as
the mirror of
their reflections

while
-------------you
----------------------- love
------------------------------------to be
------------------------------------------------as thin as
------------------------------------------------------------------the air

so that
---------------they
----------------------------can
-----------------------------------------see
-------------------------------------------------------through
--------------------------------------------------------------------------you

.

Three minds

I am of three minds—
an un-whole trinity
built by ghostly id,
god-sick conscience,
and the son of never-
virginal egos—
interlocked inside
a mortal’s spirited

head-in-head conflict.
To the fabulous free
goes my prized heart’s
spoiled meat. Cooked rare,
its fetid, red juices
run in all directions.

Detached

Tubular heart
Cast-iron brackets
Beside my redbrick wall of ascension

I have never seen you before

Don’t recognise the colours you draw
From the tunnels inside
The semi-circular cracks across my veins

Fishman
Urban Myth

35"x28"
acrylic/fluted sbs

Poem- A Tribute to Sylvia Plath

The Truth has Spoken to Me

Beware, for there

is fire beneath my nails

and I can scratch

your slippery surface

to swiftly reveal

your masked secrets.

In a box I have lived

full of moist

blackness

and tiny holes punctured

to watch you floating unperturbed

in your fabricated microcosm.

You have always come to me

enshrouded in a thick swelling screen

of smoke and the smell

of burning charcoal as we ignite,

already exhausted,

our embittered passion.

But the heart that has fed,

since time immemorial,

joyous interludes

to our silent ordeal,

has now come to rest

and left us to willingly die

or to pick up the ashes-

it is for us to decide.

on my way...

by human being

illustrations by rhoda penmarq

on my way i saw a woman buried deep in the earth up to her shoulders with her face torn off by the stones thrown at her she was still alive and her long hair rippled in the breeze was it love?, i asked no, she moaned, it was a fight between my owners what can i do for you?, i enquired nothing, she responded in a fading voice, just take one of these stones and throw it in the running water i sat there combing her long hair with my sad fingers until she died then i took one of the stones - the bloodiest - and continued on my way on my way i saw a man fastened to a tree with his hands cut off blood was dripping down on the stones he was still alive and his long hair rippled in the breeze was it a fight between your owners?, i asked no, he moaned, it was a war between hunger and me what can i do for you?, i enquired nothing, he responded in a fading voice, just take one of these stones and throw it in the running water i stood there combing his long hair with my sad fingers until he died then i took one of the stones - the bloodiest - and continued on my way on my way i saw a couple a boy and a girl the boy was shot in the heart lying on the ground with blood gushing from his chest the girl was hanged on the gallows with blood streaming gently down her nailless fingers joining the boy's blood on the stones they were still alive they both had very short hair there was no breeze a distant storm loomed in the horizon was it a fight between your owners or a war between you and hunger?, i asked no, they moaned, it was for truth and freedom what can i do for you?, i enquired nothing, they responded in a fading voice, just take one of these stones and throw it in the running water i stayed there caressing their faces with my sad fingers until they died then i took one of the stones - the bloodiest - and continued on my way i walked for days and for years but i couldn't find any running water one day i took out the stones and held them in my hands i was tired and the stones were so heavy i cried i cried because i still remembered i should have done something tears were running from my eyes dripping on the stones washing away the blood dried on them the stones and my fingers were all wet and bloody i threw them up in the air they joined each other and turned into a crow and the crow sat in a tree and started cawing: it is all for love it is all for love it is all for love you can still see the tree you can still hear the crow you can still touch a stone what will you do with it? monday, july 12, 2010

Lying on a floating mat, gazing at the sun through my hat.

The waves cause a gentle sway
Of an inflated mat
And my body lying flat
As I stare up into my hat

Blue sky and waves are bright
But just an inch from my face
Is a dark and rainbowed space
And I am glad to be in this place

Gamelan

Particularly
presents a grave
the classic image
Snake

...

such as pyramid-mail
variation in the cube
consists of all three
pieces for access

...

THE ENCHANTED LAKE!
(=- Pencil stone)

a bit 'curved
protruded above
Graves' low

A set of lies;
here is what I am!

Spillage

Two cracks beside
destructive fear
of mine

A hope
reverberating drone
of gentle hums

We savour
each and every
tattled tale

And risk
the bitter moments
by degrees

Invest our
broken bones
on borrowed time

And expect it all
to happen
out at sea

But what we found
was selfishness
and greed

Mystery School

"Mystery School" - 2010

Acrylic on Tan Paper

Parting Shot

40"x27"
acrylic/fluted sbs

1972

August reeks railway flats, slops its steaming tongue
into mothy thickness behind the kitchen sink
16 floors above Union Square, Sherry dangles

her foot from the window ledge, her head bent
back over wicker chair, frayed and pocked
with growing holes she has assisted with
wet fingers. The lanky limbs of a Rolling Stones
tune drifts from the floor below... Saw you stretched out, 
in-a-room ten oh nine; A smile on your face, 

"and tear in your eye," she sings.
Ashes gather in her lap, then fly as the fan's neck 
makes its rickety journey from the far corner of the room.
From the street the smell of thin meat roasting
girls in pink shorts rollerskate toward 14th

15th, 16th, 17th, 18th now, the years she's
sucked it in, all the endless air that comes
from where? She can't even begin to wonder
but it does come, always, and this thought inspires
brief movement, a reach for the beaded bottle,
a slow pour down the throat. A smile. An arrival.

Exile never sounded so sweet
as when she listened from between floors,
her head bent back, a mercy of river air through the window.

seven little stories to be read after bedtime...

by human being

illustrations by rhoda penmarq

. (one) a bird in a bare blue sky a kiteless child is watching the bird... (two) a bird in a bare green tree a wingless cat is watching the bird... (three) a bird on bare brown soil a careless scarecrow is watching the bird... (four) a bird over a bare grey wall a windowless tower is watching the bird... (five) a bird in a bare golden cage a brideless groom is watching the bird... (six) a bird on a bare black wire a wordless poet is watching the bird... (seven) a bird on a bare beautiful shoulder a sightless soul is watching the bird...

the catch...

by human being

illustrations by rhoda penmarq

fox was passing under cypress tree when something dropped down in front of him... it was a large piece of cheese! he looked up: crow was sitting on the tip of the tree... looking down... fox was suspicious: eh? what does this mean? what about that old fable? this should be me luring her to drop the cheese... why is she offering this large piece to me? i even didn't see her and her cheese... is this a trap? perhaps this cheese is poisonous... or maybe she wants to get something bigger from me in return? crow was still looking down... fox looked at the cheese and crow several times... at last he ignored both of them and continued on his way... when he was far enough, crow swooped down and snatched the cheese off the ground... - phew! thought i have lost my precious catch... it's so heavy i cannot hold it in my beak properly... thank heavens this one didn't like cheese!

and ye shall lie in the bosom of Abraham

The wheel tuned out dry clay carved

and red splattered at the weedy edge

of a rump drive came to a tuning end

when the dream stop of potting screeched.

I saw that with my own two eyes.

I did not see the giant that soaring dream

crushed in the oily distance that saw these

phone pole legs kicked and pine pitched

and still all possible sawn is listening still,

tarred to the dawn birds at the bare apron

of stubby grass gnarled at the car park edge,

an abandoned bottle label obscurely turned

into sinister maps that are deciphered black-

now all pain and all joy eternally gold in me.

An eight cylinder dose of splatter

just over heaven's yellow lines

heaves salvation when it matters

becoming then just memory of want

then just a memory of memory of want

that happens at the end of memory

when the neutral bits that mattered then

then are rinsed in pink and swiped away.

The sphincter of a smoke ring collapses itself

into a candle of Rome that whispers the night

in a rainbow gouache behind gray lids,

a lone maple barking its perhaps lesson

brazen unaccosted by chimes of leaves.

The surfaces of a Toynbee tile

wear away to reveal its cut scroll

left handed jeweled facets coal black

finger crude cuts of dancing hands

that cymbal between the tropics only,

places in the chiming rhyme of solar night

with the ritual pomp of a secular madman

at the year's worst time and all that matters

just implied by the glare of dust on goggles.

Collecting offerings discarded or often lost

by others to deliver to a streamside chorus,

a chorus barely worshiped enough to weep

yet feared enough to arrive obsessed

in the fiction of a continuous cycling mind,

the most common of these being things

that have fallen in transit and things

that have been washed through the gutter

by a twilight rain that rose up skulking

and auburn strands caught in mirrors

and storm drains clogged with leaves-

twelve cents worth of grimy temptation,

two pennies and a dime trumpet

a halt to running washed to source

by the iron grid of unlucky rushes.

Though it often seems that way at first

the miss of silver that plinked the rubbish

bounced off from there is your pleasure

in the gathering of fetish for water idols-

plastic bus stops are barren of breath,

but with candy wrapped and flat air blues

ragged pine tree shapes easily pass

through the extra ripe of lemon bitter.

The girl with the mandibular grill has gone

to ground leaving an endless roll of box cars

to rattle frame a dry and dusty boredom-

the convenience store is hardly eponymous

though it might seem quickly enough at first-

when you have to come right out and say it,

it probably isn't true.

Denial

"Denial" - 2010
Acrylic on Tan Paper

reality...

by human being

illustrations by rhoda penmarq

i'm washing the dishes... this is a reality... the window and its drawn lace curtain in front of me is another reality... through the curtain i see two doves perch on the windowsill... i watch this reality... i decide to draw the curtain aside very gently to watch them more closely... but the doves fly off... the window is again in front of me... without the curtain... without the doves... this is another reality... now i notice the tree in the backyard... dancing slumberingly in the breeze... the glass is between me and the tree... this is another reality... i open the window... the glass is gone... but the tree is still there... and breeze rushes in... this is another reality.. i'm not washing the dishes anymore but water is running from the tap... this is another reality... i shut the tap... the water is gone... the sound is gone... this is another reality... i leave the kitchen... leaving the window open... and the curtain undrawn... i'm gone... the tree is peeking through the window into the kitchen... this is another reality... june 2009

Dilated

acrylic/fluted sbs
40"x27"